


The Underground

by DracoPendragon



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Established Relationship, Inspired by Poetry, M/M, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-29
Updated: 2014-01-29
Packaged: 2018-01-10 11:45:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 577
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1159332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DracoPendragon/pseuds/DracoPendragon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock walks through the Underground one night and remembers what was possibly the happiest day of his life.<br/>(I suck at summaries, I know)<br/>Inspired by Andrew Scott's reading of the poem of the same name by Seamus Heaney.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Underground

**Author's Note:**

> Andrew Scott has a beautiful voice. And he [read](http://andrewscottsvoice.tumblr.com/post/31860522337/andrewscottfangirl-axemurderess-andrew-scott) The Underground by Seamus Heaney, which is where I got the inspiration for this little fic.

’Come on, we’re going to be late!’ shouted Jim to Sherlock, who was running behind him. They were running through one of the vaulted tunnels of the underground, fresh off the Piccadilly line they had caught from Green Park to Knightsbridge, having first taken the Jubilee line from Baker Street, where they were staying together while they looked for work to pay off university debts. They were headed to the Royal Albert Hall, where they had booked tickets to see the proms. They were just mooning around really; had been bored one night with nothing better to do. It had been Sherlock who suggested it.

He chased Jim, playing the game, but never catching him as the coat-tails of the jacket in front of him fluttered in the evening breeze. He hoped, secretly, to reach him and hold him and never let anything between them change, never let Jim’s feelings about him be lessened. He barely noticed the buttons falling off his lover’s smart coat and onto the floor as the two of them raced to the Hall.

They got there, eventually, and had a wonderful evening, making educated comments on the music and the composers. Then they leisurely returned, not really in a hurry to get anywhere, content in each other’s company. They’d gone to sleep together, in the same bed, not bothering with pyjamas seeing as it was July and the air was still warm. Kissing each other, not wanting to say goodnight yet. So they didn’t. They stayed up all night, marvelling at the way the violinist had done a beautiful rendition of Bach’s Partita No. 1. They didn’t talk very loudly, not wanting to disturb Mrs Hudson, the landlady, even though they were far above her in apartment 221C.

* * *

Sherlock remembered it as though it was yesterday. It was strange, how one night above all the countless others that passed in seven years can stand out so distinctly in one’s mind. But he remembered it. Every detail, every word, every kiss placed on his lover’s lips. But that was long ago now, and things had changed. Of course they had, he had been foolish to think they would remain the same. Jim had left him, of course, for something else. Something better, it seemed. He didn’t enquire as to what it was, didn’t really care either.

Still, walking back through the station one night, in pursuit of a lead for a case, he would have sworn he heard the dying echoes of their laughter and cries. But he didn’t, of course. It was his mind, playing tricks on him. He retraced the path they had taken, almost unconsciously, not realising what he was doing until he stumbled across one of the buttons. Still there after so many years. It was tucked away, out of sight to the oblivious passerby, but he recognised it for what it was. He followed the trail, which ended in the draughty, lamplit station he had tried to avoid for the past seven years. Could it really have been so long ago? Surely it was only yesterday. He tried not to think about it, to bury the memories that had re-emerged after so long spent in concealment.

He tensed up, sensing someone behind him. Turning, he saw only the flap of a coat-tail and he was alone again. He ran once more through the station, chasing the coat that he had chased that fine summer’s evening, seven years ago.


End file.
